


Spin Control

by rfk (jfk)



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:43:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3471386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jfk/pseuds/rfk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their love affair from start to finish, played out in a series of vignettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spin Control

**Author's Note:**

> Co-authored by a mysterious friend/love of mine --this has been in the works for quite some time. It's good to be writing again, though.  
> Lovely covers found here:  
> http://jfk-d.tumblr.com/post/112567593539/spin-control

_(1104)_  
  
“Miles?”   
  
There’s something very disconcerting about the quiet of the car; especially tonight.   
  
Not that Waylon would mind in any other circumstance –he doesn’t usually drive and Miles going on about something or other usually doesn’t help his concentration any. But tonight he is driving and the silence is even more distracting.   
  
It’s only one night. It’s just one night and it’s a nice venue and all Miles has to do is be charming and keep Waylon company. Isn’t that reasonable? Surely it is –certainly, it is. Just one night of Miles’ lousy life, that’s all Waylon is asking for, just to help him get this promotion he has been jumping through hoops for, and already he’s unhappy.   
  
Maybe he isn’t. Maybe he’s fine, but usually he’d be halfway into some overly-embellished anecdote by now, and Waylon could drive to that, and stop listening. But the silence is killing him.   
  
It’s worse than just a lack of talking. It’s napalm quiet is what it is. The kind that twitches like a fire, impossible to ignore even over the sounds of traffic and the AC and the radio.   
  
He sighs and casts a look into the passenger seat, where Miles is sitting passively reading print-outs on something or other –he hasn’t even said what it is his next article is even on, that’s how quiet he’s being.   
  
Maybe it’s for want of prodding, so Waylon repeats himself again, “Miles?”   
  
Miles doesn’t even look up. He makes a noise of affirmation and that’s it, which is all the worse. Waylon isn’t even worth half his attention tonight.   
  
And Waylon hates to let him win –but not as much as he hates the quiet, so he breaks and says finally,   
  
“It’s just one night, you know.” He sighs, eyes on the road, the words rushing out of him like a plugged tap bursting. “And you know how important this is to me.”   
  
Miles doesn’t even respond to that right away. He just sits there, staring at the same page, looking unreadable. As if it’s some terrible burden to do this one thing for Waylon –this one tiny thing. The silence will break eventually. Something will give, and then he’ll apologise and Waylon will be able to--  
  
“Is that my shirt?” Miles is looking at him now. They’re similar enough sizes that their wardrobes tend to overlap, even if Miles is a little broader in the shoulders and leaner overall. He also tends to buy nicer clothes than Waylon, probably because he’s stuck in an office alot less. Earlier, he hadn’t thought twice about taking it off the hanger in the closet, thinking it fit nice enough.   
  
“I’m just borrowing it for tonight.” Waylon says, carefully. He doesn’t want to waste what little conversation there has been, so he gives Miles quick look while pulling out onto a busy road and says, “If you really don’t want to go, you can just pick me up later.”   
  
With some nerve, Miles actually laughs at that. He drops the page he’s reading onto the dashboard and shakes his head. “And what? You’d pretend not to mind?”   
  
“I never said  _that_.”   
  
“So let’s just get where we’re going.”   
  
Waylon questions to himself if he can keep up this level of exasperation all night, but if Miles is going to be like this, then he thinks he might have no choice. Still, he holds out a hope that in the time left it takes to get there he can sell Miles on it –maybe promise him they’ll get takeout on the way home or give him a blowjob. He won’t, of course. Waylon will be tired and he’ll pass out right away, but that part doesn’t need as much of a mention.   
  
He can’t think of what to say at first, and it’s a rookie move, because Miles halts his train of thought by asking a question.   
  
“What am I supposed to be doing at this thing anyway?” Miles is rolling down the window now, taking out a cigarette from the carton in his inside jacket pocket. He can light it one-handed like a trick and it still impresses Waylon, even if he’s seen it a million times before, and even if impressed is the last thing he wants to be right now.   
  
“It’s a gala.” He explains. “Just be charming –I don’t know. Enjoy the free food until I come to you for moral support.” Waylon turns into somewhere, and lets out a desperate laugh. “Please be good.”   
  
Miles is smoking away by now, but goes to the effort the tug the cigarette out of his mouth to ask, in his most incredulous tone, “Good?” The surprise is there in his voice, but not his expression. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”  
  
Waylon is on the backfoot now, stuttering, his eyes barely on the road. “I just mean--”   
  
“If I embarrass you so much maybe you should just leave me in the damn car.” And now he’s turned away, shaking his head. At least when he was quiet Waylon didn’t feel bad. Now he’s sorry, and worse than that, worrying that he’ll have to go this evening alone or drag an uncooperative partner in with him. It only gets worse when Miles fails to add anything else.   
  
They’re pulling into the parking lot, now, and Waylon isn’t sure if he can say something to reconcile the situation in the time it will take to get three. It feels like they’re forever reconciling –like Miles is either angry or indifferent, boiling point or absolute zero all the time, and just when Waylon is used to one, it changes.   
  
For a while he doesn’t say anything –he just parks up and sits there waiting for Miles to finish his cigarette. Of course he doesn’t say anything, because he’s not the one good with words, and he needs to find something Miles can’t weaponize, which seems a monumental task in itself.   
  
It’s not even that his words are a reflection of Miles’ behaviour –he’s just jittery because this is a big deal to him. Because he never attends these things and wants to make a good impression, and because he’s scared of his boss and he doesn’t really know any of his co-workers. That doesn’t really seem to be translating, though, so he takes the keys out of the ignition and turns to Miles.   
  
Miles doesn’t even acknowledge the fact that the car has stopped, and simply opens the car door as he takes a puff of his cigarette and blows it out into the night air, pivoting slightly so that one foot is outside on the ground and the other half of his body is in the car. His eyes are closed and Waylon can tell that he’s exasperated and knows what’s coming, but that doesn’t stop him.

“Can I just ask exactly what it is that you’re opposed to?” Waylon asks softly, in the most level voice he can manage. He really wants to avoid an argument, but Miles is being unfair and it needs to be addressed. “I mean, I know you don’t want to go. I know you’ll be bored. But  _you_  know how important this is to me.”

“Oh my god,” Miles mumbled with the cigarette in his mouth, letting his head fall back against the head rest. “You know, can we just not? This doesn’t need to be a thing.”

“It is a thing when every time I need you for something that I want, you’re pouty and miserable all the time.” Waylon responds, keeping his voice quiet and in control. “And I don’t see how it cannot be a ‘thing’ when you give me this attitude. I may not want to go to all of your engagements or agree with all of your career choices, but you can’t say I’m not supportive.”

Miles turns to look at Waylon then with a blank expression. It’s the same exact expression Miles gave him when Waylon informed him of the particulars of this potential promotion – the longer work hours, the extended business trips, and not to mention closer proximity to that lecherous boss of his. They hardly spend any time together anymore as it stands. They’ve been distant for months, now. Waylon assumes Miles doesn’t think about it, but he does. And it worries him.

Miles can hardly blame Waylon when his own occupation takes him away for months at a time, and the thought that he could come back from one of those trips and not have Waylon there waiting for him – possibly for months more – is devastating. Miles can sense himself that they’re drifting apart. This move could potentially be Waylon’s excuse for finally breaking away and leaving him, and now Waylon expects him to be happy about it? To be supportive? ‘Be good’, his ass!  
  
 But Miles is not going to admit that so readily, even though he hates that Waylon automatically assumes the worse. So for now, he sticks to the basics.

“I just don’t like it.” Miles replies, finally. Taking another puff of the cigarette. “I told you this already.”

Waylon nods slowly. “So, it doesn’t matter how much I want this, because you don’t like it?” He’s beginning to get exasperated himself. It’s always such a job to figure out exactly what it is Miles is trying to say. Always some great task to twist a confession out of him. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit selfish?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?!” Miles barks. Always the first one to raise his voice. Always the first one to lose patience. “Now can we just hurry up and go so we can get back? I want to wear that shirt in the morning and I don’t want it stinking of douchebag.”

Waylon’s face then contorts into a frown, but he keeps his composure and his voice quiet. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Miles doesn’t respond, but shrugs and tosses the cigarette outside and closes the car door.

Waylon scoffs incredulously. “Are you serious?” He leans in slightly. “Is that was this is about?”

“You know what, maybe you should take me home.” Miles replies in one of his most dangerous tones –level and sardonic. “If all you’re gonna do is lecture me when I’m here doing what you asked me, I might as well –“

“No, this needs to be addressed.” Waylon waves his hand in dismissal of Miles’ attempt to end the conversation. “Just what exactly are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything. Can we just go?”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are –“

“Just forget I ever-“

“Miles.”

“Waylon.”

Waylon pinches his nose and lets out a frustrated sigh. “Why are you like this..?” He its back. He gives up. There’s no way they’ll be able to have a civilized conversation if Miles is acting like this. If he were to just drop it now, they’d only be ten minutes late. Nothing anyone would notice. And if Miles is still upset, he’ll just have to stay upset. Waylon has half a mind to let him walk home.  
  
For now, however, he settles for turning on the radio and rolling down the window. Anything but the silence.  Miles is becoming so difficult to read. He’s always been self-centered, but it’s usually endearing more than anything. Now, it’s almost as if he doesn’t want Waylon to have anything for himself; doesn’t want him to make any progress. Waylon is sure he’s eased Miles into the idea of possibly working longer hours and being absent as much as Miles is. It’s not like he has just dropped the bombshell out of nowhere. And even if he had, why can’t Miles just be proud of him?

“I mean, I’m good at my job. Why can’t you just be happy for me?” Waylon says. He feels hot as the anger boiling up in his stomach. He leans his elbow on the door and rests his head in his left hand and the wheel with his right. “And it’s not like it’s even a sure thing. Why can’t you just – just help me make this happen? If this is what I want?”

“This is what you want?” Miles replies, his voice raised again. He’s frowning now and looking directly at Waylon. “To be working all the time? To never see each other? And when we are together, all we do is argue? Because that’s exactly how it is now. You’ve been working your ass off and sucking up to your goddamn boss.” Miles’ anger seems to be rising as well – as with each sentence, he grows louder and louder, practically spitting the words out, now.  “You seemed content before he had you moved to his department. Now all of sudden you just  _have_  to have this promotion? Give me a break.”

Waylon’s eyes widen and he shoots Miles a baffled look. He opens his mouth to speak a couple of times, but is unable to get anything out, he’s so shocked. He’s tempted to sit here and really address this, but they’re already running late and he should be trying to think of a way to wind this conversation down to be picked up later on. But that’s not what he does.

“It sounds like you’re accusing me of something.” Waylon responds, his words clipped and firm. “So why don’t you just say it already?”

Miles shakes his head and rubs his eyes, chuckling incredulously as he makes to pull out another cigarette. He’s already done with this conversation. Waylon, however, is not. The night is already ruined, Miles has made sure of that. Miles is out of control and the best thing Waylon can hope for is that remains so bored and miserable that he just stays quiet in a corner somewhere – not the fun, outgoing, charming Miles that he’ll need, but the child only Waylon sees. So while they’re on the subject, Waylon feels they might as well try and duke this out – especially when Miles is questioning Waylon’s faithfulness. It makes Waylon so mad, he has trouble keeping his voice level  -- trying to keep control of the situation and his voice trembles when he speaks.

“You can’t, can you?” Waylon presses. “Because even someone as deluded as you knows how dumb it would sound.”

“ _I’m_  deluded?!” Miles stops mid-light, his eyes going wide as the cigarette falls out of his mouth. “I’m not the one who can’t see how obvious it is that my boss wants to get in my pants. And you ask  _me_  to ‘be good’?”

“So, when you travel all over the world leading investigations, you’re just doing your job. But when I’m presented with the opportunity of getting a promotion –at last-- I’ve got to be having an affair with my boss?!” Waylon is shouting now, his hands gesturing wildly but staring right ahead, even though the expression is directed as Miles. “Give  _me_  a break!”

Without missing a beat, Miles sneers. “Let’s see.” He coughs out, angrily. “You missed my Gala, you were late for my last award ceremony,” Miles is holding up his fingers and counting off, his tone sardonic once again. “I actually invited you to come with me to Atlanta and you said you’d go, but you backed out of it last minute. All because of work.” Finally, he stops to breathe. “When I want you with me, it’s so much of a bother that you’re either late or a no show. But when Jeremy Blaire calls, you’re there in a split second. “

“And clearly that means I’m sucking his dick --is that what you’re saying? Really, Miles?!” Waylon asks, his tone becoming desperate.

Miles shrugs again, frowning. He pauses on his words. “Well, let’s be honest, Way...you see him often enough.” He regrets the words as soon as they left his mouth, he really does. But it does no good; they’re said. He keeps his expression hard as he stares ahead, reaching down to pick up the cigarette that has fallen in his lap.

Waylon remains sat, quietly, seething and shaking his head in disbelief. Miles had said some truly mean things in the past, but this was way below the belt. Here Miles – who knows him so well – accuses him of cheating; all while implying he isn’t good enough at his job to own a promotion of his own merit in one fell swoop. It’s like he doesn’t even know the man anymore.

They sit quiet for the a few moments. The atmosphere is thick with tension and incredibly unpleasant.  Miles rolls down his window  –tossing out the cigarette, his shoulders slumped as he wallows in his own, private self-guilt. He sighs loudly and runs his hand through his hair, trying to think of a way to apologize before they enter the building. He leans forward to get a better look at the place: a very nice venue, huge and appearing to be made all of glass. Miles cansee people in the windows laughing and drinking. Now that he’s here, it doesn’t seem like it’ll be all that bad. At his wide, Waylon has both hands on the steer wheel and his head is bowed slightly.

Miles reaches out tentatively and places a gentle hand on Waylon’s neck. “I really --“ He lets out another loud sigh.  “I did  _not_  mean that.” He says, quietly. “I’m just – you know I didn’t mean it, right?”

Waylon inhales and raises his head back up, knocking Miles’ hand off him. He averts Miles’ sorrowful gaze as he reaches back to grab his coat and shrug it on heavily.  A part of him knows Miles probably didn’t mean it. After all, underneath the nastiness of his comments, Waylon can decipher that Miles only misses him. But the accusation still cuts him to the core. And Waylon is tired of always being the one to forgive and forget; tired of being the one to keep the peace. He’s tired of Miles thinking he can just say whatever he wants in whatever fit of rage or frustration. Waylon never says things that he doesn’t mean. But Miles never really means what he says.

Waylon moves to open his car door and Miles mimics him, one foot out the door when he hears Waylon’s voice again. “You know, Miles…”

Miles turns backward to look at Waylon, who is searching his face, eyes glistening. “You know, Miles I—I really love you. But sometimes, you just make me sick to my stomach.” Waylon grinds out those last words with such anger and malice that Miles actually flinches. Waylon holds his gaze for a few moments longer, then he opens the car door, steps out, and lets the door slam loudly before taking hard, quick steps toward the venue.  
  
Miles sighs to himself a last time as he gets out the car as well, sulking behind Waylon with his head down and his hands in his pockets – defeated and feeling like an asshole.

  
  
He knows as they approach the other guests that Waylon isn’t going to be talking to him.  
  
It’s no genius feat of deduction, but Miles is starting to see it in ways that aren’t obvious. At least, he doesn’t think they are.  
  
He looks for those micro-expressions and giveaways. The way Waylon is all tense in the joints, his arms bent keenly at the elbows, and the way he stand a little too upright. Out of self-preservation, he hands back slightly, and says not a word.  
  
What is there to say? Waylon knows he’s angry –he’s the one angry. And foolish as it sounds, Miles is wary of Waylon’s wrath. Perhaps even afraid. He has never claimed to be brave, and it’s out of cowardice that he shuts his mouth and keeps moving on through the room.  
  
Really, the smart thing to do –the practical thing, would be to apologise now and be real sweet on Way to save himself the worst of it. But it’s those first few words, or an instigating gesture that Miles can’t manage. He’s all out of words, or he’s just not quick enough, because Waylon is paces ahead of him, being greeted into the fold while Miles stares on, like a stranger.  
  
Moments like these make Miles all the more reluctant to be sorry. If Waylon really needs him here, needs him to be good, then why are they pretending as if the other doesn’t exist. Secretly, Miles thinks these things are Waylon’s own punishments for him –that he secretly adores the condescension from others when Miles talks about his job. That, in reality, Waylon adores the moments where Miles is the rube –at a loss, slackjawed, the only one in the room without a college degree.    
  
Some small part of Miles that’s still cerebral, knows what he suspects in Waylon is just a projection of his own insecurities. And it’s not Waylon’s fault, or business, is Miles is insecure, either. But he fears he is powerless to stop himself, and far too stubborn to break his own vow of silence.  
  
His temper flares, briefly, when he looks up to see a hand low on Waylon’s back. Ringless, lily-white, but it’s placement unnecessary and provocative. Miles can’t tear his eyes away but follows the gesture, and notes the subtext of the way Mister Blaire is standing. His feet open at a small semi-circle, facing Waylon, the hand no longer amorous but almost possessive, the eye-contact unwavering and bold.  
  
Miles blinks at the scene uselessly, forcing himself to second-guess? Is he merely imagining these things? There’s nobody else he can ask for confirmation. He can only spectate, uselessly.  
  
A passing stewardess pirouettes around him and plies to offer a silver tray of mimosas, the flutes aggressively clean, the glass wishing to be diamond. It offers a needed distraction, and Miles could use a drink. The stewardess departs with a walk closer to a batterie, and Miles watches her go, observing other guests being handed their drinks and canapés. He is of dirt tracks and house parties and bring-your-own-beer. Here, he is an interloper. Waylon knows he doesn’t belong.  
  
The mimosa is thinner in substance than air. What Miles really needs is a cigarette, but knows it would be rude to depart right away. Perhaps it’s not a cigarette he needs as much as air. His chest is tight with resentment, and despite the space being grand, and light and airy he feels like he is packed into the tin can of a subway cart.  
  
He refuses to look back at Waylon, the colour of the other man’s hair like a strident alarm in his periphery. Briefly, he pauses, holding the stem of the empty champagne flute in a hostile fist and looking for a place to dispose of it. It gives him an excuse to take a good look around the place, willing his legs to take a few steps to an emptier area of the room.  
  
Miles has been here only once before, and he remembers feeling as affronted as he does now by the feel of the place. The early sunset light is breaking in through the numerous windows, turning the potted ficus leaves golden, rather than green and illuminating the titles of forgotten books on the decorative shelves. An effort has been made, Miles recognises, to make the place more wholesome.  
  
It doesn’t feel particularly wholesome to Miles.  
  
He feels himself gravitating towards the back of the room, closer to where the desks are, open enough to be cubicles but without walls. All the desks look so terribly anonymous, and in a way it comforts Miles. There are no doors or locks, no places to hide secrets. It hardly seems the place to conduct an affair.  
  
Of course, he knows that Mister Blaire’s office is much more likely to be secluded, with a locked door and a sturdy desk and all manner of secrets. It’s far more likely that Waylon gets called to his office to ‘troubleshoot’.  
  
The thought make Miles feel as if he is a million miles away from everyone else, and only more so when an anxious-looking partygoer taps his wrist and asks him, “Have you seen Raphael?”  
  
He forgets how to speak, momentarily, a little stunned, before recalling the motor memory and shaking his head mutely. “Uh,” He frowns. “No. Sorry.”  
  
The woman doesn’t ask anymore of him, and departs, going back into the crowd to look for the eponymous Raphael. Miles follows her general direction, and when he looks up, he notices Waylon’s eyes lingering on him.  
  
They blink to eachother. They look away.  
  
Waylon’s gaze lingers a little longer, as if searching for a little apology, shackled back by the hand still high on his back and the whisper hot in his ear. It’s owner is no more dangerous to him than Miles, perhaps less –but Jeremy Blaire scares Waylon so, that he can hardly speak.  
  
His silence is too easily mistaken for compliance –for want. Miles can’t reconcile his silence for what it really is –fear.  
  
After all this time, too. They have suffered eachother their twinges and telltales, and he feels as if he constantly has to prove himself to Miles. Like the man has no concept of the permanence of Waylon’s character, and the moment he looks away Waylon will abandon all of his morals for a quick way up some golden corporate ladder.  
  
Waylon comes back to himself eventually, realising that his attentions should be on the discussion about the potential promotion at hand. He tries to grasp the last threads of Jeremy’s sentence as if to try to pull it back to him, but only ends up with, “...a network migration on the east coast that I’d like you to oversee.”  
  
For a second, Waylon can’t make sense of it, and then nods, flustered. “It –it sounds like a great opportunity.”  
  
Jeremy nods to him. “Our offices in Cape Cod are in bad shape. We could use a level head over there for a few months.” Waylon processes every word five seconds after they’re said, and so remains worrisomely blank to the possibility of being uprooted. Belatedly, his response kicks in and he reminds himself to react. To make some kind of gesture that says ‘no’. But Jeremy is so close to him –he wouldn’t even have to whisper to fire him.  
  
“Cape Cod?” He murmurs, trying to find something to say.  
  
The hand on his back presses against him gently. “It’s a beautiful location. Have you been?”  
  
Waylon isn’t well-travelled like Miles. He shakes his head, mutely, only having words to say on the winters in Colorado, their coldest months, and the rare trips to Six Flags, or the coast, and once when he was very young the Statue of Liberty. “Not for business.”  
  
“Ah, pleasure-bent, are we?” Jeremy grins at him. He’s achingly handsome –with that kind of aggressive gleam to him, the one that hurts the polishing hands to achieve. There’s nothing organic about Jeremy, not from this close, and it’s startling.  Worse still when Jeremy leans in a fraction closer and smirks, “All pleasure should be a little bent, don’t you think?”  
  
Across the room, Miles is scrolling through his phone disinterestedly when a voice to his left comes intrusively, and suddenly, in his ear. “Something more entertaining on that?”  
  
He looks up blandly to see a lizard-eyes man to his left, south of fifty, north of thirty-five, holding a half-empty glass of mimosa. Miles looks from the man to the phone, and then resolves to continue scrolling, murmuring with a nod. “Yeah.” He says, and then, when the strange doesn’t depart, he frowns, looking up again. “Can I help you with something?”  
  
The stranger smiles a meaty smile and raises one pale hand. “I’m Steve.”  
  
Miles stares at him blankly for a second before pocketing his phone, almost with a sigh, and takes his hand. “Miles.”  
  
He is scrutinised for a second before Steve makes a noise of understanding. Miles is looked over once again and then, in an amused voice, he hears, “Oh, you’re with Park, aren’t you?”  
  
The name loses Miles for a second, and when he catches up, all he can think to do is shrug. “Well, not right now I’m not.”  
  
Steve laughs a little too hard at that, sidling up all friendly to Miles’ side. “It’s a shame he’s neglecting you.” He says, simperingly, and then, with a harsher tone to his voice. “Especially since Blaire has him jumping through hoops for a promotion that was filled weeks ago.”  
  
That takes Miles aback. He feels himself go slack from his eyes down, his mouth hanging open slightly, his eyes finding Mister Blaire from across the room, still leaning over Waylon, smiling. He turns to Steve, briefly, and nearly laughs. “You serious?”  
  
“Oh, you bet.” Steve seems to forget that he’s said anything about it almost instantly, and goes back to regarding Miles again. “And what is it _you_ do, exactly, Miles?”  
  
Miles has been an interloper in Waylon’s crowd before: he knows how this conversation goes. He knows that a congressional medal of honour couldn’t make his highschool diploma look any more worthwhile to these people. He knows that places and experiences are not credentials on paper, and therefore not good enough. None of the things he has could surmount rich parents or frat parties and a college degree.  
  
With a shrug, Miles sighs. “Nothing.”  
  
It makes Steve smile a lopsided smile. “You don’t do _anything_?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“That’s refreshing of you.”  
  
Miles stares at the bottom of his empty glass and thinks seriously about slipping outside for some fresh air. He feels even more claustrophobia at the man at his elbow, blearily practising attraction despite Waylon being a stone’s throw from them, in plain sight. He is hardly listening when Steve says, “Would you like to get another drink?”  
  
And Miles isn’t thinking anything beyond Waylon, and how disappointed he’ll be, and how best to tell him. So, it is in the most innocuous way that he accepts, pushing off from the bookcase and nodding. “Sure.” He says, blearily. “I could use a drink.”


End file.
